Nightwalking Diary: Lydney Harbour, River Severn 17th-18th October
Recording one of the largest and most dramatic tides you can witness on our planet.
Our research developing two public artworks for Destination Lydney Harbour, a project that sees the restoration of the historic Lydney Harbour on the River Severn, began with our friend and film maker Steve Geliot. We invited Steve to share his experience of the place along with exerpts of the films he recorded.
This blog post is the first in a series of pieces about our involvement in this project. Words, films and stills copyright Steve Geliot.
Destination Lydney Harbour is funded by the Ministry of Housing, Communities and local government Coastal Communities fund.
I am peripherally involved in a project with artist duo Denman and Gould, who have been commissioned around the restoration of Lydney Harbour in the Forest Of Dean. On this visit over a couple of days, and one full night, the aim is to record one of the largest and most dramatic tides you can witness on our planet.
Whereas in Brighton our tides are typically in the range of two meters at low tide to seven meters at high tide, the range at this small port location on the river Severn can be as much as fifteen meters. This weekend the range will be about ten meters, but there is a key thing I did not realise until I planned this shoot properly. This huge tide comes in very very quickly, going from low tide to high tide in about four hours. That is nearly twice as fast as the tides we get in Sussex.
“I spend Saturday filming in the daylight, watching an unpowered boat being led like a large lazy dog round the arm and safely into the harbour. ”
I spend Saturday filming in the daylight, watching an unpowered boat being led like a large lazy dog round the arm and safely into the harbour. I capture the moment when the high tide turns and a dizzying series of elegant fractals are produced by the suspension of sediment in the river water, stirred up by the tide and shed sequentially spinning into the distance like waltzing ghosts at a phantom ball. I return at night just before low tide. The river is lit mainly by light pollution from the power station on the far bank, but there is the prospect of some stars peeping through gaps in the cloud later. I can hear geese on the water far away on the other side.
“The river is lit mainly by light pollution from the power station on the far bank, but there is the prospect of some stars peeping through gaps in the cloud later.”
The first thing that indicates that the tide is coming back in is a change in the sounds the geese are making. I then see an inky line with lights brightly reflecting on it develop somewhere over there in the darkness amongst the geese. This is the front wave of the incoming tide, only a few inches high now, but it forms a smooth crest which reflects the lights with gem-like clarity as it inexorably advances towards me. I am transfixed by this line of coloured lights, and the increasing sound of the rush of water coming in. I have a real sense of how people can get caught in tidal waves. Every cubic meter of this advancing tide weighs one tonne. The onslaught is unstoppable and relentless, building in volume with every minute. Resting birds move off in the dark as mud banks are engulfed, and the complex branching estuary patterns are erased. The sound gets louder as the water reaches the river bed below the harbour where I am set up with the camera.
Up it comes, up and up, suddenly becoming quiet again as it gets nearer to high tide, with the great mass of water is moving freely now, without having to cascade over slopes of mud. As the river fills up, this quiet becomes pregnant, deafening, insistent. It is so close to the top of the harbour arm that I start to check my exit routes in case it overtops. Now the harbour is full, the sound of water spraying through the lock gates has gone too. The high tide has a confidence about it. “I am unstoppable” it says. The whole universe seems to stall as the clouds part just a little above, and I know that those fractals are forming again, although I can’t see them in the dark. And in a minute, silently the whole river begins it’s slow relaxed exhalation again.
Steve Geliot is an artist, curator and film maker based in Brighton.
